Both and Neither
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: He pulls. And pulls again, a little harder, struggling more than he should, like it’s really Rorschach’s will that anchors the material in place, holding firm with inexplicable purpose."


**Title**: Both and Neither (Alt.: Cognitive Illusion)  
**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own the Watchmen or the characters said comic/ film adaption contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Alan Moore and I do believe DC. No copyright infringement is intended_.  
**Fandom**: Watchmen  
**Characters**: Nite Owl II, (Twilight Lady, Rorschach)  
**Continuity**: Comic  
**Warnings**: An overtly sexual tone  
**Summary**: "He pulls. And pulls again, a little harder, struggling more than he should, like it's really Rorschach's will that anchors the material in place, holding firm with inexplicable purpose."  
**Author's** **Note**: I don't know. I'm a tremendous dork. :l Also: LOL SO METAPHORICAL/PRETENTIOUS.

"_Illusion is an anodyne, bred by the gap between wish and reality_." - Herman Wouk

--

Nite Owl does not know where he is.

He feels weightless, suspended, as insubstantial as thought and as grounded as bedrock. It is achingly familiar, here; perhaps he is in his bedroom, or safe inside Archie, or lost in one of the hundreds of alleyways that never fail to look the same. His costume is settled flush against him, comfortable and weighty and reassuring, like a second layer of skin he never knew he had. It is dark, he thinks, but he can see, like he imagines a cat would, some midnight predator, a wide-eyed sentinel on a lonely branch, screeching out into the night.

He is not alone.

"Rorschach," he thinks he says. There is no reply, the figure before him perfectly still, as if the slightest breath could dispel him. He seems jagged, sharp, composed of extremes; on the edge of motion, perpetually on the threshold. It feels normal, even though it's not, and that's enough to unlock his limbs, grant him animation. He steps forward (and into his personal space), and places a hand on either shoulder (and he should be flat on his back) and watches in fascination as his fingers travel of their own accord, sliding up to rest on either side of Rorschach's throat (and he doesn't think that was incredibly stupid).

Nite Owl, without the fear or hesitation he knows he should have had, grips the bottom of the mask between thumb and forefinger. Ink spills away from his fingertips, sliding up and around from him. "Nite Owl." Maybe it is warning, or encouragement, or simple identification, but it sounds enough like yes to make this suddenly admissible. The mask is lifeless between his fingers, and it bunches easily, lazily rearranging its patterns like words, like thoughts.

He pulls. And pulls again, a little harder, struggling more than he should, like it's really Rorschach's will that anchors the material in place, holding firm with inexplicable purpose. The inkblots shift, gather, reform into something meaningless and terrible for this implication.

Nite Owl yanks upward, straining against an unexpected weakness in his arms, and at last it begins to move, at last, with excruciating slowness, peeling free a whisper at a time.

And suddenly it's off—and his breath catches.

There is no face beneath it, just white and black and warm as living skin. Another mask.

He is already uncomfortably warm.

His fingertips tremble as they pass over Rorschach's face-that-is-not-a-face, the simple planes and angles a mere suggestion of human form. And it feels only right, only natural, to tip forward, to rest his palms against that unresisting visage and touch his lips to the ink. Black pools on his mouth, runs down his chin to splatter on Rorschach's trench coat, sinking into the material, darkening it, changing it.

It does not alarm Nite Owl that the body in his arms twists so sporadically, jerks to and fro, even as he lays it down, the shape shifting, gathering, reforming, into something soft, something forgiving. His eyes flutter closed, sealing him in, searing this into his sensory memory. Hips that are so achingly familiar wrap around his own, welcome him, bringing him near, long hair and soft breasts and groan that's half-heartbreak and half-snarl, both and neither at once. Leather – not roughened, not catching, just soft and slick and expensive – slides up the back of his throat, curls tightly against him, cupping his skull, holding him close.

This is not how it goes, this is not real, but meaningless has never had any meaning for him, and that makes this admissible.

Daniel kisses her throat, as he hasn't a thousand times before, with none of the shame, none of the hurried, sloppy trembles of adrenaline and lust. Works his lips up, along her jaw, to her mouth, to her lips, and he opens his eyes and sees only inkblots.


End file.
